


The Author

by bliss_delight_jr



Category: Original Work
Genre: Caretaker Day, Gen, Short Stories, Short Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-16
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-11-19 09:27:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18133970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bliss_delight_jr/pseuds/bliss_delight_jr
Summary: A short story (or poem?) inspired by J.R.R. Tolkien.





	The Author

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Caretaker Day, everyone! i hope you all enjoy this.

The author is dead. But he is not gone.

He can be seen in the reflections of the pub windows. He can be felt in cold morning fogs; in winter winds from over the sea; in the heat of the steam of the water on the stove; in the warmth of the fire in the hearth.

The wood in the walls recall his touch and presence. The floorboards creak in the very same way they did when they were under his weight. 

Stone towers, stone walls, remember his face.

Trees recall his smile; they recall his hand, his touch, his young shining eyes. 

The stars remember how he gazed at them; and how they gazed back at him, happy to be reflected in his eyes.

And the earth and soil and stone of other places in the world are sad to not have known his presence.

And the wind has met many little people, and was glad to have flowed through his hair when he still walked the earth.

And the sun smiles down on all of earth’s creations, and smiles to have known every single one; and he was one.

\---

Trees in the meadow grow tall because they saw him do the same. Blades of grass grow green to make him proud.

The woods and the fields and the rivers remember his bright little eyes, and his wandering feet; his sweet baby brother and his budding young mind; and his little heart that could hold so much love; and his little heart grew, and maybe they saw, but perhaps not.

And the halls and walls of stone watched him work. They saw him write. And they watched as water and paint flowed from the brush. They saw ink run and run onto the page. They saw history being slowly and clumsily formed in front of their own bricks and stones. They felt his absence.

The sea bore him away, and then bore him back. He had been only one of many to have come back. But some did not come back. The sea took pity on both. 

\---

The rain and sky wept for the young men far below. The water that flooded the trenches roared and groaned and wept (and would have vomited if it could). But the rats and fleas and lice did not particularly care. But earth and soil, and the walls of the trenches watched in silent horror. And sometimes they fell down, crushing and burying.

The earth that knew those days has since healed. Grass grows on it again. Flowers are sprinkled and laid across the once barren lands. The earth heals, but does not forget. In the earth’s arms many young men lay. And the earth is gentle, and the earth holds on, cradles, and does not let them go. 

And in the earth’s arms the author now lays.   
Do you see?  
The author is dead, but not gone. 

If his house still stands, it remembers him. The floors remember the way he walked, and the weight under his feet. The walls remember how he would lean on them. The ceilings remember his faraway gazes and streams and puffs of smoke. They all echo his words, his voice; his sounds and his laughter. 

The pathways remember Sundays. The garden recalls the little children and his wife; and a father and his son sleeping on some cloudy afternoon. 

The house, if it still stands, is proud to call itself his. 

There are thousands of words and pages that mirror his mind. Thousands wrought and written and born from his hand and soul. They call themselves his children, his mind, his creation, his vision. They are his, and they do not fade. 

In some memory of the heart, he is there. A smile is recalled. Spoken words are heard. A pat on the shoulder is wished for, or even just a passing look as he carries ever onward. But the heart remembers things that never were. The heart yearns for things that cannot be. 

In some distant memory, the heart recalls the author. And the author lives on.


End file.
